Free The Prince and I: A Romantic Mystery (The Royal Biography Cozy Mystery Series Book 1) by Julie Sarff, The Hope Diamond, The Heir to Villa Buschi

overwhelming, it makes me cough.
    “What on earth?” I ask as he lets go off my hand and makes his way to the most glittering stainless-steel range I have ever seen. Quickly he dons a pair of oven mitts and pulls open a door.
    “The frittata!” he yells.
    “You’re making a frittata?” I ask, wondering why Alex is doing his own cooking.
    He pulls a heavy iron-cast skillet out of one of the ovens. Standing in front of me, with smoke swirling all about, I can’t see a thing.
    “Where did you learn how to make a frittata?” I laugh, finding everything so absurd.
    “Eton,” he responds and places the smoking dish down on the kitchen island.
    “It’s a little burned, not that bad,” he adds.
    “It looks like an enormous hockey puck!” I reply.
    “You’re right, you’re right. I need to go with Plan C.”
    He seems to be devising “Plan C” on the spot. As he leans against the kitchen island deep in thought, I examine the room. Except for the stone floors, stone walls, and a stone sink that runs the expanse of the east wall, the rest of the Holyrood kitchen appears to be retrofitted to the most modern of standards.
    “Where’s the staff?”
    “On vacation, except for a few guards in the guard house. Holyrood is closed for renovation, starting yesterday. That’s why I thought it would be the perfect place for a private birthday party.”
    “And you thought you would cook for… how many people?”
    “Ah now, that part was not planned. You see, I was going to hire the palace chef, as she lives about a mile from here. She agreed to do it but she’s come down with a bout of the flu. Didn’t know that till I got here a couple hours ago. So it was quick over to the grocers and back. But look, I’ve made a green salad,” he points to a pile of butter lettuce, dressed every so lightly. He’s placed it in a beautiful blue porcelain bowl that looks hundreds of years old.
    “I bought some bread and a cake and I thought -- I can make a few frittatas. That should be enough to tide us over till morning when we can all head out to the Dark Horse for a proper Scottish breakfast. I was just in the middle of it when you rang.”
    Hmm, when he puts it that way, I feel slightly guilty. Apparently I came at an inopportune time and as a result his frittata is burnt to a crisp.
    “How many people will we be cooking for?” I enquire, reaching for a clean apron that hangs on a hook.
    “That’s the spirit, Liz, we’ll dig in. I’ll show you how to do it. We’ll cook them up on the stove. Then we’ll add the cheese and tuck them into the ovens. Although perhaps for a little less time than the previous one.”
    It turns out the Prince is expecting twenty people to show up in about an hour. As I whisk eggs around in a big white bowl, Alex concentrates on cooking the frittata over the open flame. Soon things are starting to smell good. My empty stomach grumbles, revealing the fact that I am starved. Hearing my loud stomach, Alex tells me to help myself to some bread.
    “A little something to wash that down with?” he asks and pulls two wine glasses off the shelf. “I opened this red a while ago. Can I pour you a glass?”
    It’s probably not a good idea. I probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job. After all, I am a professional biographer. But wait a minute. I just flew from New York to London and then drove all the way to Scotland in a possessed car. I deserve a drink.
    “What are we drinking?” I ask him, feeling happier than I think I have ever felt in my life.
    “I don’t know, some California rubbish,” he quips. “I bought it at the liquor store around the corner. There’s a wine cellar in the castle, but all that stuff is for important meetings and the like. I can’t just nick it,” he states as he chops chives furiously with a knife.
    “When will everyone else be here?”
    “Soon, they’re on the last flight of the day which should be landing,” he glances at his watc h , “just about now.